at six ravens ranch
the towering redwoods sway
gently in the breeze
initial contact
tentative at first but not
unwilling to please
Anderson Valley
bakes in the afternoon sun
just before the fog
and upon the end
glistening and glinting in
the fresh morning light
the road back and forth
through the mountains to the shore
blackberries ripen then burst
sparring not sparing
in the moment deeper still
promises to keep
this time of year you can hear clearly the rushing intent of the stream even though it can’t be seen
it cuts
every second it’s cutting, moving and cutting, zig-zagging, digging deeper as it goes, a perfect perpetuity
rippling cacophony
the sound of it becomes everything, negates everything, is as if unstoppable, its roaring way made
it swirls
instead of faltering, swells into haystacks defying its state, then calmly into eddies and calmly into pools
the canyon
it’s gnawed sits in gentle acceptance, almost embracing, always approaching but never encroaching
waiting to be washed away
not plain to the eye as far as you or I can see
but plainly free to be seen
by eyes keen of the hawk
across the field and up the
tree
perception has levels, we quickly conclude
proudly
and out of thin air
deducing
and upon the virtues of specialization
a tangent is unwittingly
embraced
and so forth into
the complexities
we only think we understand
but really don’t
his body bobs smoothly as the branch
of the tree waivers just so
on a breeze implied
but his gaze is fixed
we agree upon a rodent at first, then address specificity
surmising from the grass
dangling from a talon
a mouse
and that’s when, like a reflex, from the tree he dropped
a flash of wings and
his broad tail fanning
out
there was a moment when we were
both aware of
each other’s gasp &
the breath held as the suspense
played out
then back to the perch in a bound
settling in and smoothing feathers before
with three quick snips
consuming our
confirmation
the very essence
the connection between beings
the barrier and the welcoming touch
there is a rhythm
there is an association
there is a will & there is a way
this is an answer
this changes the questions
this gives as it takes away
a temptation
a tongue tip tap
a taste to be tackled
skin
fat
spice
there’s so much to look at
and I keep looking and looking
and when I see I want to see more
and the more I see the more connections are made
and those connections
beget more connections that are tangential
they are related
a cousin
they are connected
by the sinew of commonality
of which I do not question
I just keep looking and looking
knowing that one day I will not see it all
but I will get my fill just the same
in the bed
in the dark
where if anything were to happen
if there was even a chance…
in the dim flicker of the television
in the cool breeze of the evening’s end
the wine making the impossible seem
possible
if only for a moment
displayed like temptation
stretched out
laid back
an island, entire to itself
this may go nowhere
the electric razor buzzes erratically in the other room
charging
cleaning itself and
charging
and there was this urge to do something
in the form of words launched
they just kept coming
bunched up into phrases
scenarios
but under the influence of words
that just keep coming
me and the razor and the robot doing its thing
bubbling, whirring
and someone somewhere stoned as hell
thinking about it
that thing
and how it should fit in
or better yet, integrate
or forget about it all together
and take a nap
but no
instead
like pulses
and impulses
under no one’s direction
pushing at
pushing out
a smooth ripple easily washing over
and over
and over
like pulses
and impulses
and the razor and the robot doing its thing
but not without Humphrey
in the background
ruining everything with his ideas
on the condition of reality
Aristotle in the back yard instead of raking the leaves that crackle and rustle under foot
Supposing that knowledge is one of those things that is fine and valuable
Considering each thought as it comes to mind – wondering if, fleetingly or otherwise, each is an action unto itself
Of these some are held to be affections peculiar to the soul itself, others belong to the animals
Falling behind the effort to keep pace as the awareness of every moment’s passing stacks upon its predecessor
the inquiry, that is, about substance and what a thing is — perhaps someone might think
Thinking about thinking, thoughts about thoughts, daydreams dangle loosely and tangle into knotty heaps
For straightness is inseparable if indeed it is impossible without a body
A murder of crows acts as a distraction and an awareness of my re-action drives me inside to seek refuge from the endless possibilities
open to a blank page just in case
just in case this document is ready to become a documentation
a documentation of that which is already happening, in progress
a contemporaneous convergence, if you will.
crude, and yet we all agree: Beautiful
though beautiful hardly fits the bill as an attempt at describing
describing but just scratching the surface, grazing the veneer
these are the words. this is the phrasing.
each line is a happening in it self
itself taking shape as the words spill out and spill onto
spill onto and across in the form of a poem, fashion a verse
make from nothing but the words in my head: Something.